


6:08 AM

by NerRavine



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Absurd, Body Horror, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Feet, Gross, Horror, Medical Trauma, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonsense, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerRavine/pseuds/NerRavine
Summary: A story of a man who discovers that he has a severe medical condition.Just something I wrote to make my husband laugh.





	6:08 AM

It’s 6:08 am on a Saturday. You don’t work weekends, yet you still find yourself waking up early. Thankful of being spared cubical monkey duty today, you sleep in a bit longer. At least you try to. The wife is being an absolute blanket hog, and the sun is very rudely shining in your face-range. Fuck it, I guess it’s time to wake up. 

Skipping the morning shower, you go straight to hunching over a month-old newspaper with a hot cup of caffeine beverage. Your feet are dreadfully cold, as they remain slipperless. There was an attempt to put the slippers on mind you, but they seemed to have shrunk since yesterday. The wife must have ruined them in the wash. It’s ok, you can deal with that laundry witch later. Your mental rage appears in the physical realm, in the form of the newsparchment in your hands becoming crumpled beneath your fists. Darn. You were really looking forward to the article on the local business that did the thing for that one purpose. 

The recycle bin is too full to accommodate the massive girth of an additional wad of paper. It seems the container must be properly emptied out before it can contain more tree-based refuse. You locate the nearest pair of shoes, the first step in performing the “Taking out the garbage” maneuver. The shoes are easily located, but putting them on, not so much. Your feet just, don’t fit? Upon closer examination, it is clear that your loyal tootsies have expanded to be at least two sizes bigger than before. They look glossy from the skin pulling tight around swollen flesh. You swear there is even the audible sound of a cartoonish stretch sound effect, softly emitting from your toes. All of a sudden, you hear a scream as well. 

Ok, the screaming one is you. It’s not a scream of pain, you feel no pain. It’s just primal fear escaping your body in the form of sound waves. This is enough to wake your wife, who dashes to your side in a panic. She asks you what’s wrong, she asks what she can do, but all you can do is scream. At least until you stop screaming, that is. You struggle to make it to the car, carefully stepping with unfamiliar feet. By the time your wife buckles you in, your feet have grown yet another size. When you arrive at the doors of the Emergency Room, they’ve doubled their original mass. When you are wheeled into the building, you truly resemble an overgrown Hobbit. The resident doctors and nurses know a life-or-death scenario when they see one, and boy, are they seeing one. 

A nearby nurse grabs the handles of your wheelychair, tearing you from your wife. She starts to answer questions on your behalf, as you are hot-wheeled deeper into the facility. Before you know it, you have been hauled onto an examination table and stripped of your pants. You aren’t sure why that second part was necessary. Balding hooknose #4 enters, introducing himself as your doctor. He says that he can guarantee your safety, that you are only in the early stages, that you can be cured. Thank god. 

Doc pulls out a syringe, a tube, and a party balloon. Clearly the man knows what he’s doing. He fiddles with his inventory, combining these three items into a device that he assures you will not hurt when inserted. A sharp needle is impaled into your nearest toe, instantly halting the inflation process. It appears that whatever was filling your engorged feet parts is being transferred into the balloon. The Doc confidently wipes some sweat off his brow, smearing the grease paint applied there. Ah, relief! You behold the balloon. It started as red and round as the doctor’s nose, but continues to grow ever longer and paler. Wait, was his nose always like that? You see the Doc shooting you an equally red-painted smile, letting you know that the procedure is going successfully. 

Unable to look the hideous man before you in the eye, your gaze returns to the balloon. The colour has faded to a Caucasian shade, and a series of rainbow-haired nurses have begun molding and twisting it into shape. It’s the size of a man, and it seems to be taking the form of one as well. Once your abused walking stumps are fully drained of their hellish contents, the Balloon-Man stops growing. The Balloon-Man takes further form without the help of another. The glossy latex of this thing is so flawless you can see your face perfectly reflected in what would be its own. You realize it isn’t a reflection. 

Once more, your fear returns, and it takes all your power to squelch it. You leap from your position with great haste, ripping the equipment from your body. The cartoonishly large needle of the science device acts as your sword. It’s all you have to slay this beast. Brandishing your weapon, you charge at the Balloon-Man. A series of horrid events flash before your eyes, fueling your conquest; The Balloon-Man entering _your_ home, wearing _your_ slippers, sitting in _your_ kitchen every 6:08 am whilst drinking _your_ caffeine beverage along with _your_ wife. You won’t let this happen, not now not ever. The doctors and nurses try and fail to restrain you, tripping over their own oversized feet, honking in their disgusting native clown-tongue. They almost sound fearful. You turn this fear into fuel. It’s the final propulsion needed for your trusty blade to puncture the not-you in front of you. He screams. He bleeds. 

Hot red froth spews from the hollow needle protruding from the Balloon-Man. In complete shock, you’re unable to move an inch as your new twin now howls in pain. Despite everything, the Balloon-Man fails to deflate by a single ounce. You could have sworn balloons are supposed to be filled with air. Have you been filling them incorrectly for these past 26 birthdays of yours? This feels so incredibly wrong. He pulls the foreign object from his still solid body, grunting with the effort of it all. You wonder what you have done to deserve this. He wields the sword with enough confidence to strike back. Within a second, he charges back at you with all of your vigor, but none of your grace. What a fool. 

But it hurts, oh god it hurts, yet it does not bleed. Only air escapes your flaccid form. 


End file.
